I Think He Knows
by StarsWhoConquer
Summary: Two strange encounters in Forks lead to a rash phone call that changes everything. Sometimes you need to cross the world to find all you ever wanted was just down the road from your childhood home. The ocean separates lands not souls, and no amount of distance can alter fate. AU/NC


**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Stephenie Meyer and her affiliates. I'm just playing, mostly because I have an unholy adoration for Jasper in all his many incarnations. **

**So far, this first bit spans nearly a year. Which is a lot of ground to cover, but this story has twisted in surprising directions for me so far, and I'm good with that.**

Mike greets me when I enter Newtons, eager and bright eyed. We've had more than a few encounters over the years, sporadic as my visits are.

I wave off his assistance, knowing where to go by now.

Thing's don't change in Forks, its dull normality part of its charm.

Except, there's a handsome looking present I'd love to unwrap deconstructing the Newton's Christmas light display, piling each box into one of the three carts beside him.

If I knew Forks was hoarding this level of attractive, I would've tried harder to visit, maybe not have voted for California the last two summers.

As it stands, I'm a bit disappointed I'm only here for Christmas.

That's not nearly enough time for proper ogling.

Tall, rugged, and handsome doesn't fit at all with my narrative of drab, dull, and dreary Forks.

Something about the fade of his jeans, and his plain t-shirt make him seem displaced. There's nothing specific to pinpoint, just an air to his posture. A certain timelessness to his five-o'clock shadow. A man out of place. And a man out of season, considering the biting chill outside.

He looks at me then, with strange, violet eyes.

I swallow. Several times. "You planning on leaving any lights for the rest of us?"

"There's lights in Port Angeles," his deep southern twang is charming even if he's a bit of an ass.

"Unless you're planning on decking out the entire peninsula, I'm sure you can spare a box."

Slowly, he turns to face me properly. His impassive face doesn't twitch. "And if I am?"

"Then good luck. I'm sure Bambi, Thumper, and Yogi will appreciate the invasion." With that, I stroll to the half dismantled sleigh display, grab a box, and slip around him. First come, first serve. If it's not in his cart, he can't claim ownership.

A cold, hard hand grips my arm. "I need that, Sugar."

"Sugar's in a different aisle, actually."

The slow grin's positively feral. "So, you're a looker and a joker, I—"

"Look, it's Christmas Eve and I can't drive to Port Angeles and get dinner ready. Just because you feel the need to go overboard with your holiday this year, don't spoil mine." I finally shake his grip loose. "And here—" I hand him the mittens from my pocket "—you're awfully chilled."

I resist kindly remarking on how next time he should bring a jacket. Maybe most 18 year olds wouldn't worry about other people being cold, but I'm me, and he's downright frigid. Besides, there's nothing wrong with kindness.

The world can always use more of that.

I'm at the end of the aisle when I hear the quiet, "Thanks, Bella."

I pause, an uncertain, shuddering chill trickling down my spine. Then I remember its _Forks_. Everyone knows everyone else's business and official local or not my dad is Chief of Police.

…

It snows Christmas morning. For about five minutes. Then the humidity ups its water content and it all turns to sloppy, slushy, freezing rain that goops along the sidewalks. Lovely.

While Charlie watches a cop movie, grumbling at the inaccuracies, I craft at the kitchen table, randomly trading commentary with him.

When the show's over, he shuts the tv off, about to start his nightly ritual. "Will you — what the hell?"

"Language," I tease.

"What did you _do_?"

"Arts and crafts."

"How did you…"

"Paper, tape, elastics, a hot glue gun. Really basic stuff, dad."

"Schools teach kids to make _guns _these days?"

"No. Youtube does."

Charlie scratches the back of his neck. "What's… you know what, never mind."

I offer, "It's better than me learning to make a pipe bomb or something. It's _paper_."

"So…do they work?"

"Oh ya."

He ruffles my hair. "You up for some target practice?"

"Always."

Charlie and I set up a tower of plastic cups, rearrange the furniture, and bet on who will do better. Dad may be the better shot normally, but he's never played with paper guns before. Besides, I handcrafted my revolver and double barrel shotgun from scratch.

Clearly I have home field advantage.

Until I don't.

Oh well, Charlie and I laugh harder together than we ever have, staying up way too late. That's a win in my book. We lovingly trash talk each other for hours before collapsing in the living room, near exhaustion.

Charlie decides we should head to Walmart tomorrow to pick up nerf guns. Take our gun battles to the next level. I only agree to war if we buy some camo gear too. No point in not going all out, if we're going to fight to the spongey plastic death.

"Sure kid, you can get some clothes from Newton's." With a straight face, he adds, "It'll be a perfect opportunity to ask Mike out."

I cross my arms. "What sort of father are you? You're supposed to be threatening suitors with your pistol, not pawning me off on wholesome, small town boys."

"He's harmless." He scratches his scruff then mumbles, "Besides, if I get you hooked on some wholesome American boy, maybe your European University won't seem so alluring."

I bump his shoulder, heart swelling. "Mike wasn't your best bet then."

He makes a noncommittal noise. "Worth a shot."

…

Charlie and I debate, fiercely, over the pros and cons of the various nerf gun models. Honestly, I don't rightly care which ones we use, I simply want to play, but he's taking it _so_ seriously, his face bright and slightly flushed with enthusiasm.

I'm grateful he's willing to bond over something other than fishing, so thankful I get to see this truly engaged side of him, since he's typically such a loner, content in his solitude.

"Fancy seeing you again, sweet thang." The southern drawl twangs, and I whirl around. Dark blonde hair, rugged good looks, inappropriate attire for the climate. It's the man from Newton's, though his eyes are a dark, muddy brown today. Definitely contacts. "Thanks for warming me up the other day."

Charlie coughs, uncomfortably. Then mumbles, "Not what I had in mind, Bells. He's a little old—"

Flushed and stuttering, I say, "No, no. _Come on,_ Dad, I've been with you basically this whole time. When would I be off — well, _you know_. I gave him that old pair of gloves I borrowed from you the other day at Newton's. He was cold."

I raise a brow at the stranger, eyeing his decidedly non-winter attire.

Charlie's discomfort softens. "Your big heart's going to get you in trouble one day, kiddo."

"Oh, most definitely."

I offer the stranger a withering look and he laughs, low and deep, before his tongue caresses his canine in an oddly threatening way.

Charlie's hand drifts to his belt, searching for a holster that's not there, gaze intent. The stranger shifts, distinctly predatory, to match Charlie's wariness with a challenge.

"_Peter,_" A rich, mellow voice admonishes from behind us. "What are you _doing_?"

Charlie's intensity softens, shoulders relaxing. A strange calm blankets me too, warm and comforting. He smiles at the guy behind us. "You're one of Doctor Cullen's kids. Good man, your father."

"Thank you, sir." The guy sounds both genuine and pained. "My apologies for him, he's a loutish brute but family is family."

Charlie grunts in understanding.

"I'm delightful." Peter grins, leering at me. "Aren't I, Bella?"

I wrinkle my nose. "You're something, alright."

"So whatcha doing looking at this mighty fine selection?" Peter thrusts his hands into his pockets, with a distinct impression of settling in.

"Well now I'm fantasizing about shooting you," I mumble.

Peter laughs. "Come on, Chief, you can't tell me your budget's been slashed so bad your officers gotta resort to plastic and foam."

Charlie flushes a bit, grunting, "No. We're ugh…"

"Living a little." I tilt my chin, defiant, then turn and start chucking boxes into the cart, ready to disengage from this awkward encounter and go hang out with my dad.

A pale hand grabs a box, hovering, before offering it in my direction. The other guy says, softly, "My brother, Emmett, likes this one."

It's a Nerf N-Strike Elite disruptor. Unwitting, my gaze drifts from the strong hand, up a leanly muscled arm, the fabric of his long sleeves clinging. I drift over broad shoulders, to loose honey blonde curls that brush his jaw and neck.

My legs weaken, trying to absorb the severe, leonine beauty of him. It's… a lot for my poor fluttering heart. He's stupidly handsome. What have they been putting in the water lately? I clutch the cart, hand flexing. This kind of good-looking is not at all natural.

His jaw's clenched, face tight, but his deep tawny eyes never waver from me.

A little dazzled, I say, "Put it in me—_my_ cart."

Eyes wide, and flushing uncontrollably, I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Where's a natural disaster when you need one? He leans away, but his lips twitch, amused.

"It would be my pleasure, miss." He places his selection into my cart. "Y'all are amassing quite the arsenal."

"Yeah." I shake myself a little, feeling ridiculous, before blinking away the distraction. "Is this okay, Dad?" I turn to my father who's been distracted by Peter.

"What?" Charlie takes the few steps over, glancing at the cart. "Sure thing, Bells. I gotta bribe you into visiting me somehow once you're off." He puffs, almost visibly swelling with pride. "My girl's going to Oxford in the fall."

"_Dad_."

"Say, where did you and your siblings end up going?"

"Yale, Harvard, Brown." He snaps his jaw shut like he's cutting himself off.

Charlie whistles.

He ducks his head, eyes averted, bashful. "It's nothing, really."

"Don't sell yourself short, kid. The world will do enough of that for you. Your parents must be so proud of you."

"Thank you, sir."

I sense his discomfort, but I can't squelch my curiosity. "So which one are you?"

"Jasper."

I chuckle, "No, sorry, I meant, which school?"

"Oh, umm—"

Peter saunters over, swinging an arm around Jasper, grinning. "Team Crimson."

Jasper shrugs him off, lip curling a little in distaste.

I tilt my head. "Sorry?"

"Harvard." Charlie answers for me. "My girl's not big on athletics."

I snort, nudging him. "Yeah, that may be, but I can trip my way to victory tonight, Old Man."

Charlie makes disbelieving noises. Peter and Jasper are still standing there. Staring.

Too still, too intent, too curious.

I shift, biting my lip, wondering if there's something on my face or in my teeth. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Jasper." Peter clutches at his heart in mock horror. I arch a brow. "Peter."

I'm halfway down the aisle, Charlie at my side, telling me a bit about Dr. Cullen and his five children, though he seems unsure where Peter fits in with all the adoptions, when I hear a low hissing noise.

My brow furrows, then someone taps my shoulder.

"Hey, Bella. Can I borrow your phone?" Peter asks, teeth flashing. "Mine's dead."

I look to Jasper, some distance away, who's grimacing. Right. That's utter crap. But I have a feeling calling him on it will do no good, so I reluctantly offer Peter my cell. He types something in, brings the phone up to his ear, waits.

Then Peter shrugs. "No answer."

Charlie asks, "Do you boys need a ride?"

"Depends which one of you is offering." Peter waggles his brows.

"_Peter_!"

Charlie's face purples and I grab his arm, dragging him away, flushed.

Charlie is silent for a long while on the drive home. I check my phone, not at all surprised to see no outgoing calls. I am shocked, though, when there's no new contact under Peter or Handsome or Charming or Sex-God— he's totally the type to self-promote.

"Delete his number, Bells."

"He didn't give it to me." I shrug.

Charlie grumbles something unintelligible under his breath about Mike Newton and Jacob Black.

I laugh, fond. "Seriously, Dad. I'm not that girl. A handsome face with lewd comments isn't going to win me over. Neither will the boy next door. Or your best friends sweet and funny kid."

"I know how teenagers are these days, Bella, and—"

"Nope! Not happening! This conversation is _not_ happening. I'm not interested in changing my relationship status anytime soon, or participating in extracurriculars." I stammer the end a bit, flushed. Again. Forks is trying to kill me. Thank god I never stayed or I'd be facing my untimely demise on the regular. "I _like_ being on my own."

"Good." The answer is gruff but undeniably pleased.

By the time we're home and assemble our weaponry, we've both relaxed considerably. Some good fun, darting through the woods and shooting each other with reckless abandon has us both laughing and forgetting all about the uncomfortable encounter.

The only damper on my spirits is the undeniable and unshakeable sensation of being watched. Shivers consistently run down my spine; prickles dance along the back of my neck.

But I never catch anyone else in the vicinity.

When the rain comes, as it always does here, we gather as many darts as we can for now, and rush back inside. Dad heads for the kitchen to make hot chocolate as I rush to the shower, desperate to warm up.

It's not until later, when I go to answer a text from Jacob about bringing over some of Harry's fish fry, that I see it. _Jasper_.

My heart flutters as I hover over the delete button.

…

Through some bizarre compulsion, I keep the number.

There's something so unexpectedly _sweet_ about Peter putting his friend/cousin/brother's(?) number into my phone.

The bashful, sweet duck of Jasper's head randomly pops into my thoughts. No idea why though.

I mean, he's gorgeous, obviously, but what does that really matter?

Still, in idle moments, as graduation barrels closer, I find myself wondering — transfixed by the name and number of an impossibly handsome stranger who didn't seem to realize his own worth or accomplishments.

…

Charlie hoots and hollers as I cross the stage, Renee cheers; my mostly estranged parents beam at each other, so unbelievably pleased with me.

The rest of Charlie's three-week visit, I play peacekeeper on our unbelievably awkward family excursions. Phil helps, completely at ease and confident enough in his relationship with my mother that it doesn't seem at all hard for him.

It's good for Charlie too. We started his process of moving on over Christmas, but watching the idea of his great love with Renee dissipate as we all spend time together, has been great.

I'm growing up, moving on; I'm glad my parents will too.

…

Oxford is magical.

I lose myself entirely in this new country, steeped in history.

My emails to Renee and Charlie are filled with historical anecdotes, lore, my enthusiasm for the architecture, and inherent wonder of the place. They both worry about my lack of emotional connections and friendships, but, even here, I don't fit right. I don't _belong._

Sure, I chat idly with classmates, sometimes. There are group projects. Class discussions. But it never goes beyond that. Honestly, I don't understand how friendships are supposed to work.

My mom was my only friend growing up. Jacob and his sisters were only fringe aspects of Charlie's friendship with Billy. I've never had anyone that was mine. That wanted me around just because I'm me, not without blood ties anyway.

What do you even do with people? Relationships require that weird reciprocity that begets obligations. How do you _truly_ connect from one person to the next? How do you open up when your own counsel is good enough? It's terrifying and strange and why bother?

Everyone makes it look so casual, they flow together and drift away all around me, easy as breathing. I observe often, especially when my mind drifts, in the rare moments I crave connection, but, in the end, I'm happy enough with my books. My favourite characters offer solace and comfort in the rare moments of loneliness. They're so stable. Unchanging and reliable.

I've never needed anyone else, anyway. Always have been unrelentingly independent. I don't understand why my parents think going away should've changed that.

To placate their concerns, on a whim, I join a ballroom dancing course. It feels very old world European, which is a mood I'm happy to languish in. Besides, I've read touch is important. So, getting my fix without strings and awkwardness seems ideal.

Even if dancing is dangerous for someone like me. There's a quiet thrill in that too.

…

The coursework is brutal, three weeks in and the overwhelm is real. I mean, I love it, but, damn.

Though their extensive library system is a saving grace, and one of the main reasons I adore Oxford. I practically move into Bodleian Library, the school's main research facility.

Which doesn't matter overmuch, except that I keep staying far, far too late.

The librarian is absolutely exasperated with me by the third night he needs to bustle me out.

I chuckle to myself, bracing against the chill of late fall, adjusting my messenger bag.

With a swift and startlingly deep sense of foreboding, I notice two men peel away from the gothic architecture to follow me. For a bit, I try to convince myself I'm being ridiculous, but I make a few strange detours; they keep pace.

Damnit. I'm a cop's daughter. I know better than to be utterly alone when visibility and population density is low. To not have a consistent routine in the evening hours that could leave me vulnerable.

I should have pepper spray. A stun gun. _Something_.

A shift my keys between my knuckles, as a last resort.

_Think, Bella, think. _

With a wild desperation, I ease my phone from my pocket, dialling the first number that comes to mind. My heart rampages, trying to outrun my unwanted shadows, while I attempt a charade of _not-bothered_.

The phone rings four times.

Then the line clicks with a puzzled, "Hello?"

"Hey, Sweetheart!" I say, loudly, voice a little reedy. "I'm sorry I've kept you waiting such a long time."

There's a long pause, not that that matters much.

I continue like he answered, "Yeah, studying went really well, I'm ready for whatever my world history prof throws at me. Though my head is so full of dates and the why's of medieval influencers I'm not sure how much fun I'll be at your parents this weekend."

A hesitant, "Is this Bella Swan?"

"Yes."

"Are you alright?"

"No,_" _ I whisper, "these men are following me and I—" I steel myself. I'm a horrible liar but I need to sell this and there's not much some guy at Harvard can do to help if it all goes horribly wrong. I force a loud laugh. "Yeah, well, dad's always going to be hard on my live-in boyfriend, he's a lawman."

From my peripheral, I notice the men slowing a bit. Hopefully reassessing the easy prey I've made for them. They haven't stopped following though.

I swallow, thick, trying to keep talking.

"How far are you from someplace safe?"

"I'm almost home." I add, "You don't have to meet me."

"Good, that's good." His soothing voice calms my frayed nerves. I can see my dorm building. "Stay in well lit areas. Do you see anyone else?"

"No…we're not going to the pub. Last time you knocked out that guy's tooth for _looking_ at me."

"You're doing great, darlin."

"Come on, we both know you get a little dangerous when any guy gets too close."

The men are falling farther and farther back, wary now, but my stomach twists knowing they basically know where I live now.

What if they keep watching me? What am I going to do if they find out its all fake? That I am alone here. A stranger in a strange land. A foreigner not a single person will miss.

It's not like I got a good enough look at them to make a report, so campus security or the police can do something about them. Not that that would do any good considering nothing's happened.

There's a muffled conversation on his end, before he speaks again, relieved, "You're going to make it. You'll be okay, Bella."

His confidence bolsters me enough that I stride the last stretch, oddly assured.

My breaths turn ragged when I make it inside my building. I scamper up the stairs, stumbling, hearing but unable to process Jasper's dulcet tones into comprehensible language.

I fumble with my room key, slam the door open and shut, then slide down the wood, traitorous tears finally pricking my eyes. I blink them away, shuddering.

After I gather myself, I interrupt Jasper's monologue, laughing a bit hysterically. "I can't believe that worked. They bought it. _Thank you,_ so much."

"My pleasure, darlin. Do you have someone who can come over? Spend the night to make sure you're alright?

"No. I, um, don't really know anyone here." I bite my lip. "Look, I'm sorry for disturbing your evening—"

"You didn't."

"Huh? Don't American Universities have midterms about now?" There's silence, I check, but no, the call hasn't dropped, he's still there. "Jasper?"

"You do know who this. You didn't call by mistake?"

"Peter put your number in my phone that day in Walmart last year." I shrug, proper embarrassed now that the adrenaline's fading. "I, um, my parents would've been petrified if I called them and I didn't really…there's no one else to call… and I probably should've pretended by myself, but I kept worrying that if something did happen, my parents would never…"

"You wanted me to get a message to your dad if the worst occurred."

"I am so sorry." Guilt churns. "That's a lot to put on a stranger, I know, I just…I panicked."

"A perfectly normal reaction. Thank you."

I frown, incredulous. "For what? How are you possibly thanking me right now?"

"You called."

"Wait, did you ask Peter to put your number—"

"No! He… well, he's hard to explain."

I laugh. "Yeah, he's something. I remember."

"Before, I meant… well I'm honoured that you thought of me. I am not often seen as a source of…strength."

"Now, _that_ I find hard to believe."

He's silent for a bit, and I pull myself off the floor, move to curl up on my bed. Relieved, but buzzing still, I twirl my hair, unsure what to do with myself.

He asks, "How is Oxford? Other than tonight."

"Wonderful." I exhale, heavy with the weight of how much I've enjoyed being Bella, without worrying about taking care of anyone else's needs.

"Tell me about it?"

"I'd only bore you."

"Doubtful."

For once, I really don't want to be alone, and am unbelievably grateful that Jasper's willing to stay with me. So I tell him about my adventures around the UK on the weekends I've been able to slip away. The intimate immediacy of a Midsummer's Nights Dream in Shakespeare's Globe theatre; my rapt exploration of Haworth, visiting notable places touched by the Brontë sisters. How I've started working my way through a list of 22 must see places for Jane Austen fans. I chat about the rapture of exploring places my idols visited, touching the remnants of their indelible presences.

I talk about my classes. My teachers. Some of my favourite tidbits and cool things I've learned.

Jasper's an attentive listener, engaged with what I'm saying, probing and guiding the conversation while staying on the rambling path I'm clearly constructing.

I'm not sure I understood what active listening was, before this.

"Weirdest thing about studying abroad?" Jasper's been playing one man twenty questions since I ran out of things to say on my own volition.

"Oh, I have an answer for that. I'd have to say — gosh this sounds so silly but — the apples here are _so_ much crisper and sweeter than they are in America." I enthuse, stifling a yawn. "I literally can't stop eating them. But I don't think I'll even be able to enjoy an apple pie when I go home now. I've been thoroughly spoiled.

He laughs. "I'll have to take your word for it."

"You should. My word is good." I blink at the time. It's after 2am. I've been talking to a stranger, about _myself_ for four hours. "Oh my god!" I moan. "I need to sleep, I have a test in the morning!"

"Oh."

"Goodnight, Jasper. Wait — are you disappointed?" I slap my hand over my mouth. I shouldn't have asked. "Don't answer! I'm being rude. You've been so wonderful tonight. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you being here with me."

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Swan. I'm glad you're safe. May I wish you pleasant dreams?"

I'm not swooning. It's exhaustion.

…

Waking to a sweet but endearing, _good luck on your world history practical, Bella darlin, _is the official start of our regular correspondence. Or I'm commandeering it as such because it's plain odd when I remember we're only talking because some creeps thought I'd be a good evening snack.

When my phone bill comes, I cringe at the ridiculous cost. We don't call after that initial interaction, and while I miss his enchantingly smooth voice, there's some strange old world nostalgia to communicating solely through the written word. Though the new age flare of text is much better for my nerves than letter writing would be, as I eagerly await his responses.

Jasper greets me every morning and bids me goodnight, with the charm of a proper southern gentleman. It's hard to forget he's been bred with a certain manner. From listening to Renee complain about past flings before she found Phil, guy's being this thoughtful and considerate is not the norm.

There's a niggling worry that he feels sorry for me, pities me even, but my doubts only haunt me during the long spaces between his responses. Which are pretty rare. Besides, he has this way of distracting me entirely when we're actively chatting.

He tells me all about his adopted family — Carlisle, Esme, Rosalie, Emmett, Edward, and Alice. He tells me about his older brother Peter, who never lived with the Cullens, and his wife Charlotte. My heart breaks when he opens up about his abusive ex, Maria.

While my family dynamic is far less interesting, I share too.

We trade song recommendations, books to read, then discuss when we can. Whenever something sparks an interest, my fingers drift to my phone to text him. I offer random thoughts too. Idle musings. He does the same.

There's a strange magic to our communion, part confessional, part diary, with hard truths and ridiculous humour. It must be the distance, the strange sensation of both knowing someone and not knowing them at all that's liberating beyond belief.

It makes it all so wonderfully_ safe_.

…

My phone rings during my last English tutorial of the term, while I'm in the middle of dissecting Lord Byron's _Don Juan_.

It's on silent but I lose my train of thought entirely when I happen to glance at my desk.

_Jasper_.

I hastily excuse myself, despite Mr. Anderson's glowering.

"Jasper?" I ask, somewhat breathless.

"Hello, Bella darlin. Is this a bad time?"

"No, no. Not at all."

"You're lying."

"I—" With a sigh, I wonder, "How can you tell?"

"It's a gift." He chuckles.

I roll my eyes. "Come on, spill."

"If I tell you, you may alter your behaviour and I'll lose my advantage."

My eyes narrow as I huff, torn between annoyance and feeling strangely pleased. "You okay?"

"Yea, I—"

"Don't bother lying either, mister. You haven't called me once in the, what, five weeks we've been talking? Something is up."

"You're busy. I can call back—"

"No way. I've got time." He was there for me when I needed him, if he needs this, I'm here. I can grovel with Mr. Anderson later. He likes me. I'll be fine.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Rose and Emmett are getting married." He pauses, seems to stop himself from elaboration, then exhales a gust of air.

"You're frustrated."

"It's only — they are already committed. I don't understand why they need to continually make a big production, we've already experienced….well, we all know how much they adore each other. They can both be rather flamboyant and extravagant. I don't see why we have to go through another spectacle already — I don't want to go abroad for Christmas. I want to be _here_, in Forks."

"Have you talked to them about it?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"I'm intimately aware of how much they love each other. I _understand_, sometimes painfully well."

"Of course you do. You're a sensitive soul, Jasper, one who's far too aware of others, but that doesn't diminish _your_ needs or emotions."

"Their wedding isn't about me."

"Of course not. But they're your family, if you have legitimate concerns, then you deserve a voice too. I highly doubt you want to impinge on their happiness just because."

"Of course not."

"They might want to get married, but Christmas is also a family holiday with its own set of traditions. Your family is a found one, you've all come from trauma and loss, and are so lucky to be together. It's understandable that significant disruption, at such a family centric time of year, would cause you distress."

"Bella darlin, I hoped—" He's quiet for several minutes. "I'm being selfish."

"Jasper, what's bothering you, really?"

"It's not relevant. It doesn't matter now."

"Don't be ridiculous." I admonish, gently. "Of course it does."

He sighs, then almost too quiet he says, "You were here last Christmas."

"Oh."

"Yea."

I swallow, hard. "Would it make you feel better if I told you I was going to be travelling to Florida to spend this Christmas with my mom after term ends this week?"

"Was going to?"

"Yeah. I spent Christmas with Charlie last year so… it was mom's turn. Phil booked flights before I left in September. I only read Renee's email before tutorial. I was going to tell you later."

"You're stalling." His voice drops, both pained and attempting comfort, "She forgot, didn't she?"

My eyes burn, a lump forms in my throat. I take a moment to choke it back, put the feelings elsewhere. "Booked a trip for two to Honolulu while Phil's got a break."

Jasper curses. "I am so sorry."

"It's fine."

"It _is not_." He's firm. The lump makes it hard to talk again. "I know some people. I could help change your flight to Forks—"

"No, no. Charlie's having his first Christmas with Sue and her kids, remember? I'd be a burden."

"Your father _adores_ you. He'd be overjoyed."

"No, Jasper."

There's a pause. "Whatever you want, Bella. It's your choice."

"I've got four weeks before Hilary term. I was thinking about some European sightseeing. I've really come to love Roman history, I'd have to rough it a bit, but I could make Italy work."

"What about France?"

"Well I was planning to hop the channel by train. Navigate to Italy from—"

"No, I mean, exploring France."

"Of course I want to, eventually, there's so much history there. Some amazing writers hail from— wait, is there something wrong with Italy? Does it not meet the Jasper Whitlock standard?"

"Emmet and Rosalie are getting married in France. In the Gorge du Verdon — France's answer to the Grand Canyon."

"Are you…" My throat dries, nerves jangling. "Are you asking me to come?"

"I—I don't know."

My anxiety unravels with a laugh. "Helpful."

"Well, Rose is…they announced their plans a few hours ago. I'm not certain what the guest list will look like. If it's….if you coming will work. But, they're not getting married till Christmas Day. You'd have two weeks before that. Maybe…"

"What about your exams?"

"I, fuck."

"Jasper?"

"I'm done with Harvard."

"You're dropping out? Where is this coming from?" Everything was fine yesterday. I'm flabbergasted and floundering. "Jasper, you're scaring me. Are you sure you—"

"No, I, damnit. It's complicated. I promise I'll explain everything, just, if my exams weren't an issue would you _want_ to spend some time with me?"

My heart thunders, eager, but I gnaw my lip, uncertain. If I meet up with Jasper, it'll make it all so _real_. It means I've shared swaths of myself with another person. A veritable stranger who's become such an important person to me, maybe the _most_ important person.

But that felt so much easier with an ocean separating us.

"Jasper, you aren't obligated to spend time with me just because I forced myself into your life."

"Obligated to — good lord you're ridiculous, do you know that? Bella darlin, I _want_ to spend time with you. You're my best friend. You aren't forcing anything on me, okay? I'm the one — I'm asking you to — what do you want?"

I whisper, only to myself. "I'm worried."

"Bella?"

I startle, amazed he heard me. "I— what if it's not the same?"

"Of course it won't be the same," he scoffs and my heart clenches. "It will be so much _better_."

"But—"

"Don't think, just answer: what do you want?"

"Instinct only?"

"Please. No cerebral analysis."

"I want you— to see you."

"Okay."

A whoosh of air escapes me. "Are you grinning too?"

"Absolutely." Jasper laughs. "I'm so glad I called to rant about Rose and Em. I'll have to get them a great present now though. I don't have to share you with Charlie in France."

Dazed, I say, "When can you come?"

"You're done Friday afternoon, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'll book you a ticket to meet me in Paris Friday night then."

"I can buy my own ticket."

"Too late."

"How did you—"

"Nimble fingers and a ready mind."

"You're incorrigible."

"Absolutely evil, too. That's preemptive commentary."

"What have you done now?"

"Full disclosure? Booked hotel rooms for the first few nights. Think about where you want to go in France, we can plan the rest of our adventure later. Though I insist, as my Christmas present, you let me take you somewhere where we can ballroom dance. I want to see how those classes you've been taking are working out."

"Oh god. I take it back."

"Too late."

"I didn't sign in blood, I can change my mind."

"Why, Miss Bella, are you spoiling to break my heart over dancing?" He teases, light.

"I _guess_ not," I can't quite keep the whine from my tone. "I didn't think I'd have to prove my skills so soon. It's only been a few weeks and I'm not— oh my god! It just hit me, I'm going to see you in _days_."

"Three agonizing days, yes."

"So dramatic." I laugh, mind spinning. "I hope you know, jet lagged or not, first thing you're doing is explaining what the heck's going on with this Harvard situation."

…

The Eurostar from London to Paris only takes two hours and fifteen minutes. But I've been a nervous wreck for days, so crossing the channel feels like an eternity.

Small suitcase rolling behind me, the enormity of the vaulted ceilings and rush of people in Gare-du-Nord has me all turned around.

I'm sure I'll see Jasper first, seeing as he's rather tall and hard to miss. He bet me a week in Normandy that he'd find me. I threw my hat in for Nice, longing for some sun and sand.

I jump, trying to see over the bustle, craning my head.

"Hello, Bella darlin." Liquid honey douses me and electricity dances down my spine.

Jasper is, somehow, behind me though I came from the train. I bet he was hiding, the little sneak. There he stands, in all his leonine glory, hands clasped behind his back with a perfect posture so rigid it has to be uncomfortable.

A deep indigo turtleneck curls against his chin, looking both stylish and impossibly cozy.

"If it eases your grievous loss, Normandy traverses the coastline too, so there will still be sand. Definitely less sun though."

My mouth works as I devour him, visually. My poor brain lost so many fine details in its recollection. My memory did not do him justice at all. Saliva pools in my mouth and my insides go all molten and gooey.

Faced with him, I wonder why all those nerves found the will to gnaw at my sanity. It's _Jasper_.

His bright grin keeps widening, practically smouldering in its intensity.

When I regain automotive control over my fingers and toes, I launch myself.

He clasps me to him, inhaling jerkily.

A slight shudder wracks him.

I pull back to make sure he's okay. His handsome face is clenched, eyes shut tight.

It registers that he's not breathing. He's too still, as unmoving as a statue.

"Jasper?"

He inhales, eyes snapping open, dark as coals. "I need — I need you to —"

"Umm, what?" I try to pull away, but his grip tightens, painfully. I gasp, wincing.

"Oh no," He moans, dropping me suddenly. "This is not how — I'm sorry. I…I. Give me a minute, please."

Jasper rushes away from me, running so fast I can barely track his departure.

Tears pool in my eyes, as I stand there. I don't realize I'm trembling until I fumble when trying to wipe my tears away. What happened? I don't understand. Everything was fine and then I hugged him and ruined—

With a sinking feeling, my brain catches up to my traitor body.

Jasper hates people touching him. It's a huge point of contention in his otherwise loving family. Something he's deeply ashamed of, but having been abused it's deeply painful and triggering for him. And I just _hurled_ myself at him.

The tears come in earnest then. He needed me to respect his boundaries, to be a supportive and understanding presence and I completely disrespected him.

Calm saturates me out of nowhere and I shove it aside, agitated. I don't deserve to feel anything so peaceful. It keeps trying to press in, and I grit my teeth against the strange invasion of nice when all I am, all I should be, is misery.

"Bella, I am _so_ sorry." He's hovering nearby again. I didn't hear him return, but I notice he's out of easy contact range. "I was overwhelmed, I lost control and I—"

"No." My whole body jerks, wanting to hug him and apologize, but knowing that's the worst thing I can do. "No, please. Don't apologize. I messed up. I knew better than to assault you. I'm sorry if I caused a panic attack. How can I help?"

"Forgive yourself." Somehow, his agony at my distress seeps into my awareness. Strange how I can know his voice so well, after so few phone conversations. "Whatever you think you've done…it's not…I am the problem here."

This is not at all how this meeting was supposed to go. I raise my tear-stained face, apology etched in every crevice. "Don't do that. If you want me to forgive myself for hurting you, you need to forgive yourself too. It's not _your_ fault."

"Bella, there is so much you don't know about me."

"Doesn't matter." I shake my head, adamant when he makes to protest. "I see you, Jasper Whitlock. You're always so hard on yourself — you need forgiveness too. And I can do that. Give that to you. I forgive you."

"You are far too kind, when you understand you won't—"

"For all of it." I nod, firm, swiping the remnants of my tears away. I close my eyes, take a deep, centring breath. When I open them again, I smile. "Hi. It's so wonderful to finally see you again."

He pauses, dark gaze assessing. Then he dips his chin, reaching for my suitcase. "I am ecstatic to spend the next two weeks with you, Miss Bella."

We walk in companionable silence before Jasper hails a taxi. He settles across from me in the backseat, a little tense but casting hopeful glances in my direction. "This _is_ real."

"How — let me guess, I'm easy to read."

"Something like that, yeah." He ducks his head, a small unbearably sweet smile dancing on his full lips, mop of hair falling forward. Quietly, he says, "I see you too, Bella darlin."

Time passes, Paris whizzes past the windows; I should be paying attention, it's _Paris,_ but the young man next to me is so hard to look away from. He's assured me, but I'm still uncertain this is happening. I have a friend. We're on vacation together. He wants to be here as much as I do.

Then he ushers me from the vehicle, and into another world entirely. I take it all in, in a stupor.

Our hotel is _insane_. The Ritz Paris is luxurious, finely detailed, positively sparkling, and gilded in the decadent flair of ages past.

"What did you _do_?"

"Money is nothing. A drop of water in the ocean." Jasper smiles, soft. "Don't fret."

My self preservation definitely should've kicked in by now.

Don't I know he's too good to be true?

And he really shouldn't be spending money on me.

"This isn't all an elaborate ploy to kill me, is it?"

"Only you, Bella." Jasper laughs, humourlessly, gesturing to the lobby entrance. "Run screaming if you wish. I'll allow it."

"Nah. I'm good." I wink at him. "Only a passing thought. I trust you."

He grins, teeth flashing. Somewhere, I recognize it as a dangerous expression, but it's Jasper so I'm unmoved. His expression eases, softens into something fond, like he knows.

Jasper checks us in, chatting in easy French.

I think I hear them discussing Marcel Proust, but I don't know the language so miss the details. Strange to dive straight into great literary works of the 20th century while at reception, but I guess it makes sense that a guy who would do that, a guy like Jasper, would bond with a classic literary fiend like myself.

He sounds lovely speaking French though it adds to the surreal quality of the experience.

On the way to the room, I can't help but absorb Jasper's nerves.

"Jay?"

He starts. "Yeah?"

"We're okay, right?"

"Better than."

"Keep telling yourself."

"I am. Praying too." He averts his gaze. "I owe you explanations, remember?"

I hum in response. "So how'd you end up dropping Proust references while checking in? Uncultured minds are dying to know."

Jasper ducks his head again, clearly nervous. "There are better rooms here, bigger ones. Ones with two bedrooms but, I thought… you'd rather Suite Marcel Proust — it's a tribute to him, keeps to his world and remembrances. I know you like that sort of—"

"Are we there yet?" I bounce back on my heels.

"Almost."

The room truly honours one of French literature's greatest writers. The suite is done entirely in woodwork, like a private wondrous library, and designed like a bachelor pad. It's completely transportive.

I twirl in wonder, not breaking from my reverie until a bellhop comes with Jasper's luggage — items he must have left before coming to meet me.

"I'm good with the couch," I breathe, fingers dancing along the fine chessboard table before tracing the spines of so many enticing books. "This is incredible."

"I am, first and foremost, a southern gentleman, Miss Bella. You get the bed."

"No way."

"Don't be difficult."

"What happened to 'whatever you want, Bella darlin?'" I affect his subtle twang.

I blink and Jasper's hovering over me, dangerously close. His cool breath caresses my face and a strangely intoxicating scent invades my senses, painting vivid pictures: desert heat, fields of blooming bluebonnets, smooth leather, buttery sunshine, drizzling honey.

He purrs, "Take the bed, Bella darlin."

"Sure, sure." I shrug. He steps back, smiling, and I bound up the three steps towards the elevated room with the grand bed, nestled behind the library shelves. I bite my lip, looking down at him. "As long as you join me."

He blinks, eyes going comically wide. "W-w-w-what?"

"You heard me, Charmer. The only way I'm sleeping in the only bed in the crazy expensive room is if you sleep in it too. Then I can comfort myself knowing you would have needed this space anyway and you aren't carelessly chucking money in my direction just because you can."

"I am not carelessly doing anything," Jasper grumbles. "People need to stop saying that."

Softer, I offer, "I promise not to touch you ever again, if that's what has you worrying." His head snaps up, tilting like a cat. "I'm 19, your 20, we're both mature enough not to be silly about sharing space."

Then he's doing it again, that preternaturally still thing where he looks inhuman in his quiet perfection, somehow fluid even though he doesn't twitch. Peter was like that too, with harder edges than Jasper, sure, but strange. There's something decidedly wrong and timeless and _oh_.

He _is_ too good to be true, isn't he?

With a thunk, I flop onto the luxurious bed, wanting to languish in its impossible softness but struck momentarily stupid.

Strangely calculated, Jasper marches toward me, looking highly militaristic.

"And if I refuse to accept that?" He seats himself beside me, close but not touching, his pale hand splayed between us.

"I'll go to the front desk and bankrupt myself to get my own room." I set my jaw, daring him to be an ass about it, daring him to test me.

He chuckles. "Not that part."

"Then, what—" His fingers curl around mine, pulling my hand into his lap, as he twines them together. Sparklers ignite in my veins, fizzing and bubbling and burning from the contact, darting up my arm, spreading warmth and comfort and belonging all through me. In awe, I say, "But you hate touching people."

"Yes." His eyes are unfathomably dark again. They keep doing that. Shifting colour and tone. "But not you. You're my…exception. You're Bella."

"Your my person too, Jasper."

An impossibly sad smile graces his fine features, like I'm the impossible one about to fade. "I lied to you. I wasn't at Harvard this year. Or last."

I should pull away, but my grip tightens, sensing he _wants_ me to pull back. But not for himself, he's trying to push me away, even as his grip begs me to stay. "But you didn't make up stories about campus. The anecdotes you shared about your time there are real, right?"

"So perceptive," he murmurs. "People believed Rose, Em, and I went away to University. It's easier for my family that way."

"What's easier?"

"Co-existing."

"Okay. What else?"

"I… is explaining Harvard not enough?"

"You only explained you aren't in University right now. But somehow you've been before?"

He hedges, "Is it not enough to enjoy our short time together?"

"For now. On one condition."

"Of course. You'd be dull in a battle of wits if you weren't so unequivocally yourself."

"If you don't mind me touching you, why did you breakdown earlier?"

He fiddles with my fingers, thumb brushing against my palm. "I'm not a good man."

"Bullshit."

He startles, fingers grinding my bones for a mere moment before he relaxes. "I—"

"Skip the part where you speak ill of yourself, please."

Jasper takes a few moments to gather himself. "I'm a…creature of instinct. I had to suppress the devil on my shoulder so I wouldn't behave rashly."

I watch him. "But you weren't going to hurt me."

A self-deprecating, wry smile. "I was."

My eyes narrow. "Why do I get the strange impression you are both lying and telling the truth?"

Dry, he offers, "Reality is multi-faceted and a major clusterfuck."

"Okay. Fair enough."

Jasper's brow arches elegantly. "That's it?"

"For now." I tug his cold hand, scooting up the bed. I lie down. He lies across from me, our bodies far apart but hands still clasped. Emotions wash through me, complex and indefinable and so large, but the strongest sensations are warmth, comfort, and serenity.

"I can feel you."

"We're touching." He squeezes my hand.

"No. _You_."

"I've always been rather charismatic."

I laugh, because he's not wrong, even if his nerves make me feel like I'm only getting a taste of his wiles, but I deflate too. Because that means it's just me. He doesn't feel it too. This energy between us. He doesn't feel me.

"I do," He whispers.

"What, can you read my mind now?" I snark.

"No." His lips twitch at some private joke.

"Jasper?"

"Yes, Bella darlin?"

"I'm good with weird." I search his inhumanely beautiful face. "You're my person, whatever you are — it doesn't bother me. I don't care that you're not human."

He wrenches his hand from mine, balking. His mouth works and there's a faint buzzing, like he's talking far too fast for me to understand even a smidge of it.

"Jasper?" Finally, he pauses, the faint noise stops, and I add, "I have no idea what you just said, but I'm good. Can we just, be together for awhile? I'm really excited to be here with you. I'm so happy and grateful to have this opportunity to be close, but it's hard too. Knowing you know me so well, and I know you too but we haven't spent any time together, really. My body needs a bit to catch up, okay?"

He's perusing my very soul, I sense it, somehow, but it's Jasper and even if he's a sometimes liar, I trust him. Completely. Maybe stupidly.

But I'm an all in kinda girl. I made my choice about Jasper Whitlock a while ago.

…

In the morning, we order room service. Jasper plays with his food, eyeing me, far too tense to be any fun. Then I curl up with a book, soaking in the atmosphere, allowing my body to process sharing space with him, letting me catch up to reality.

"Don't you want to explore Paris?"

"We have a week. Today, I just…" I bite my lip. "Is it so wrong to want to be with only you? To not let the rest of the world in yet?"

He doesn't answer, but allows me to resume reading.

He has a book in his lap, but he stares blankly. Jasper stays across the lounge, his discomfort, nerves, and anxiety palpable. Whatever he is, as the day progresses, he seems to forget more and more to cover for himself, as he stills entirely.

After two hours of him definitely not breathing, I set my book aside, finally ready.

"Are you a gargoyle?"

He blinks, a little stupidly, before focusing on me. "Pardon?"

"Your skin is hard, cold, and you have this preternatural stillness about you, even when you remember to twitch. So I was thinking stone, marble, some hard substance— must be a gargoyle."

Slow, he says, "No. I'm not."

"Okay, so maybe not mythical. Are you some sort of alien?"

"Do you mean like superman?"

Excitement fizzles. "So I'm right?"

"No." His head cocks. "You aren't afraid?"

I roll my eyes. "You're _Jasper_."

"Everyone is terrified of me. All the time. Even those that love me."

My heart cracks for him then. This poor, poor young man. So much tragedy in his life, and I know we've barely touched the surface of any of it. Surrounded by such a large family, yet so unbearably lonely.

Slowly, I walk towards him, fall to my knees at his side. Hesitantly, I reach my hand for his, asking if its okay. He nods. I clasp my hands around his cool one, bring it to my chest, pressing his palm to my heart.

"Jasper Whitlock, I will never be afraid of you." My steady, if not slightly quicker than normal heart, backs me up.

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I'm not the liar here, remember?" I tease.

Warily, he flips his hand, grabbing mine and bringing them to his chest. He splays them there. My fingers twitch but I will not let them explore the fine, hard muscles.

My brain pauses when the absence registers. He has no heartbeat.

"Still, nothing," he murmurs.

"Do you _want_ me to be afraid?"

"I can't comprehend the absence."

"I told you, it doesn't matter what you are. I see _you_."

"Such conviction."

"I know my own mind." We stare deeply into each other. "Can you stop pulling away now? I'm not going to run screaming. You're different? Okay. You aren't human. That's fine. Can we just exist, together? Be Bella and Jasper."

His lips twitch. "Whatever you want, Bella darlin."

"You're going to spoil me rotten, what with the way you keep prioritizing my needs." I stand, hand lingering on his sternum. "Play chess with me?"

At first, he seems reluctant, cagey. But even with the mental preoccupation, he trounces me soundly. I marvel at his strategic mind, the way I think I'm winning, how he lulls me into a false sense of security, then blindsides me with his win.

It's hard to be a sore loser when I'm busy rejoicing in the simple pleasure of sharing space. Loving the simplicity of doing something with him, instead of just talking.

He doesn't bother ordering food for himself at lunch.

I grin, approving. His return smile is tentative, at best.

Of course I want answers. I'm curious as hell. But, he'll explain when he's ready and I don't _need_ the details right now.

We play a few more games, discussing our travel plans. One week in Paris doesn't feel like enough. We have a tourist cruise along the Seine tomorrow morning, and the next two nights we have shows at the Paris Opera house then the Moulin Rouge. There's also the Louvre, other museums, cathedrals, exquisite gardens, the Eiffel tower. All the touristy stuff barely leaves enough time to explore the ambiance.

I'm pretty excited for the white-cliffs of Normandy and all the seaside towns too, even if it'll be windy and cold. Mont-Saint-Michel, the rocky island topped with a soaring Gothic Abbey is of particular interest. Jasper is ridiculously invested in seeing a plethora of world war two sites. I just smile, happy to see him be more himself, relaxing into our vibe.

We needed today, without distractions.

When twilight descends, Jasper insists we explore the hotel, eat at one of the restaurants. I pick food off both our plates, and his expression is so unbearably soft it's near painful to witness.

After, we wander into the green courtyard, settling into one of the cushioned latticework alcoves.

He confesses that Rosalie is enraged he came to France before the wedding and is only going to show the day of. Apparently, Edward and Alice lost it when he announced his travel plans too. Emmett didn't particular care, Carlisle was wary, and Esme is the only one who supported his decision.

"Well, I am the scarlet woman enticing you across the sea." I attempt a straight face, but can't help but laugh at his dry expression. "They're probably not great at expressing their worries. You aren't a spontaneous person — more of a cool, strategic planner, and calculated observer— so your sudden plans probably shocked them into worse versions of themselves."

"They say the risk isn't worth it." He remains stiff-backed, but somehow he curls in on himself too. The contradiction is as impressive as it is sad to witness, like he's falling apart and not enough but can never allow himself to bend or break. "That I'm no good for you."

"You are."

"But—"

"Don't." I hold up a hand. "If you want to talk about your feelings, or work through your damage, I'm all ears, but I'm not going to listen to you shit all over yourself. You're going to skirt the issue, because I don't have all the details, but I don't need sundry facts to know that _that_ is utter trash."

"They mean well."

"And the road to hell is paved with good intentions." I push my hair back, tucking it behind an ear. "Your family knows a lot about you that I don't, obviously. But do they ever really look at _you_, Jasper? Do they see who you are or only _what_ you are? Do they look at the man you're becoming or only the one who came before? Sometimes, the people closest to us are the worst judges of our character and worth. They have so many preconceived notions, frameworks for us built on past experiences and assumptions that box us in and prevent us from being who we really are. Sometimes our families are the ones holding us back."

"Speaking from experience, I see." Jasper leans back, crossing his ankles, looking thoughtful. He knows the distance from Renee hasn't helped my perspective on the perceived closeness of our relationship, or the role I was forced to play growing up, before she upgraded from a mothering, caretaker of a daughter to a doting husband. "Your belief means a lot to me. I need you to know that."

"Yeah? I haven't even started on how dim-witted your family is being trying to make choices for a girl they don't know. They should be worrying about _you_. I could be an axe-wielding lunatic addicted to painkillers and a devout member of a cult that practices ritualistic sacrifices —praise, Satan!"

That startles a laugh right out of him. He looks bright, boyish. "You're right. I should be worrying about what you plan to do with _me_."

"There's whips and chains involved." I go for deadpan but he's got this shocked expression, eyebrows raised incredulously, and it registers how kinky that sounds. I flush, painfully embarrassed. "I meant in the torture you endlessly kind of way. Not…"

Low, he teases, "There _is_ some inexorable pleasure to be found in pain."

I flush deeper, letting my hair fall between us. "I need to do more productive things with my mouth around you."

He makes a choking sound.

_Great job, Bella, you've managed to make it _more_ awkward. _

"Er, I mean—" I cast desperately for an escape route. "Our schedule is pretty jam-packed. I think I missed where the dancing's going to fit in?"

Jasper lets me weasel out of the grave I'd been digging, since he's a proper southern gentleman and all.

"Why, Miss Bella!" His twang deepens, and I go all soft and warm. "I thought you'd avoid the subject! But here you are, propositioning me. Are you so eager to get your hands on my person?"

"Keep telling yourself that."

His ochre eyes glint. "Now. We fit the dancing in now."

"What, there's no music!"

Jasper rises, offering a gallant bow. "May I have this dance, ma'am?"

"Oh, fine. But I want it on record you're bullying me with your charm."

"You forgot to mention my good looks," he smoulders. I place my hand in his and he pulls me into him, settling into a waltz position, guiding my body into the right frame. His muscled form presses against mine, a hundred tiny points of contact. Fabrics brush and tiny quakes ripple through me as I try not to press closer.

"I can waltz." I exhale, relieved. "That's the first one we learned. I may not kill us both!"

Lowly, he offers, "I've always been partial to the structured, calculated, yet undeniably fluid patterns of this dance."

"Yeah, that sounds like you."

And then he moves.

It's not at all good form but he presses his face into my hair, humming. His music matches the cadence of my fluttering heart. The ease in which we move together is awe-inspiring, it's like I'm floating.

Faintly, I'm aware of a bustling metropolis, but we're in this magically green pocket, surrounded by intricately carved architecture. Stars glimmer overhead. Jasper's liquid honey voice flows through me, igniting and soothing, and I can't feel my body anymore, only his.

I'm lost in following the soft pressure of his guidance. Time loses all meaning and I want to be this close, forever and ever and ever —

My god, it's been 24 hours and I already have no idea how I'm supposed to go back to Oxford. Without him. How am I supposed to let my only friend go?

I would miss his soft whisper, as it blends so seamlessly with his beguiling hum, but my senses are impossibly tuned to him. "You're radiant."

I stumble, clumsiness asserting itself, breaking the spell, as I fall closer. Then I sigh, pressing into his chest, confused and yearning for something I don't understand at all.

Mumbling into his sweater, I wonder, "Have I known you twenty seconds or twenty years?"

"Bella," He groans, clutching me, desperately.

"We should stop dancing." I need to sort out my thoughts. Again.

"We have stopped." His voice is even lower, a little wrecked.

"Right." I say, lamely. He buries his face into my neck, muttering to himself. Trembling. "Jasper? You don't have to touch me, remember? If it's too much, let go."

His grip tightens, my torso bending backwards in a half dip as he pushes closer while pulling me in. My heart races at the uncharted intimacy, at the entirety of his body caging mine, at the effortless way he supports me at such a strange angle.

"Tell me to leave," he begs.

"I can't do that." Though I do try to knock sense back into my absentee brain. "We have plans, remember?"

"I—"

"It's okay. How can I help? What do you need?"

"You."

"I'm here."

He nuzzles my neck, shifting my hair aside with his nose.

I shudder as his cool lips press against my skin.

"_Oh_."

"I am sorry."

"For what?" I ask, breathless.

Then his teeth slice into my neck.

…

**Oh poor, tortured Jasper. **

**Is dear Bella becoming a juice-box or in for another agonizing three days?**

**I have a lot of ideas to continue, but other plot bunnies too. I'm fine with leaving it open-ended though there is a lot more to explore here. I mean, poor unaware Bella hasn't even registered her feelings aren't exactly platonic (Even Meyer admitted in interviews about Eclipse Bella's tragic flaw was a lack of self-awareness in matters of the heart). **

**And she doesn't even know our hero is a Vampire yet— though he jumped the shark on that one.**

**If you'd like more of this particular spin on Jasper and Bella, let me know. Side note, if people want me to continue, I imagine it will slow down some (no covering a year in one chappie sorta deal), as shit gets **_**real**_**. Because now I've established my vantage/premise.**

**I write mostly for me, but aim to please. **


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